


White Noise

by theansweris3



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purgatory, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theansweris3/pseuds/theansweris3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purgatory has gotten its claws into Abbie's mind, into her very soul.  How will she recover from this trauma?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She couldn't remember her name. She didn't want to remember her name. That name didn't belong to her anyone, anyway, she supposed. It belonged to someone else now. Someone she could only vaguely remember, hidden deep in her memories, mixed with half formed dreams and images. Trying to pull on one of those spider-silk threads of memory only resulted in a stabbing, screaming sensation which overwhelmed her body and made her heartbeat throb throughout her entire frame with an unpleasant, hot pressure.

She vaguely remembers being a person. She can recall the gripping terror she'd hidden behind a stoic, determined face, but she couldn't remember what existed outside of this void.

How long ago had that been? A day? A year? Time didn't seem to be a constant here. Everything that ever was or would be could not permeate this place. The banal nature of the passage of time seemed to be of no consequence here . Seas and mountains could rise and fall; empires of men could ascend to power and crumble to dust within the timespan of one moment. One thought. This place was the only real existence.

The wallpaper had been torn away ages ago, in deep, repetitive grooves, worn down until exposed material of the wall had been worn smooth by her raking fingertips. She never put much pressure when she scratched away at it. She just sat on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest and rocked her body forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back.

She would extend one hand; cradling it lightly and against the wall and would use her body's momentum to drag her fingernails lightly across the surface of the wall. Scratching lightly.

At first she supposed it must have soothed her in some way. Back when she was a human being. Now the thought of stopping punches a burning liquid heat down her spine and swirling in her stomach, making her hand twitch and her heartbeat pound in her ears.

She can see her fingertips begin to disintegrate. Her fingernails, which had been tastefully manicured, had either worn away from the rubbing, or been partially ripped off, splitting and catching on the splinters of wood now exposed in the wall. Parts of her fingers are freshly bleeding, feeling raw and painful, while others are peeled or calloused, where past surface wounds had been formed and begin to heal. She is vaguely aware that it is painful. She tells herself she should stop, but every time that thought forms, the panic wells up again, deep in her stomach.

On the edges of her consciousness, she is aware of a constant tinny sound. A melody that plays on a child's music box, never seeming to need to be wound up. It would just keep playing that same sad song. She would never be able to recall what that song was. It was the only sound that had ever really been. All her memories of birdsong, or laughter or language had been a pantomime of sound. A false approximation of existence.

This hollow, high melody is the only sound which she has ever heard. She has no coherent thoughts about the music box. No memories were tied to it, just crushing loneliness and fear. Fleeting glimpses of faces, unrecognizable and yet etched in her mind, in her very bones. She could never recall these faces afterwards. Never recover the memories that she could feel just outside of her grasp whenever she saw them.

Sometimes she has visitors. Sometimes she can understand the words they are saying to her. Their meaning briefly touching her conscious thoughts before they slid off her mind and dissipated into nothingness.

On occasion there would be a oppressive external force, crushing her mind and shaking the very walls surrounding her. Filling her ears with the screams of frightened girls, who fade into the dark shadows, as though dragged by an invisible force. She had long sense stopped to register that the guttural, repetitive sound underlying the haunting music box melody was coming deep from her throat. It used to be a word.

She used to know what it meant, what it was for. Now it is just a cycling string of sounds, not making any discernable sense to her. She wasn't sure what the word sounded like on its own anymore, it would just keep cycling, in beat with her rocking.

"Nonononononononononononononononono."

She would whisper it, as light as her fingers against the wall, repeating it under her breath in a fluid way. This was all that had ever been or ever would be. This place. This floor, this peeling wall. Sometimes she would feel impulses and emotions from somewhere in her mind. Pleading, anxious sensations that nagged and caught on her fraying consciousness.

She was supposed to do something, she thought vaguely. There was a mission. A case. The persistent pressure coming from her very soul, aching and begging her to stop. These thoughts usually faded quickly. They would be stamped down by the omnipresent force of This Place.

She began to notice a slight change. The melody had not stopped, her fingers continued to rake and her hoarse voice continued its chant. These things had not changed. It was something else. Something new. It was repetitive as well, like so much of her existence here. It shook the foundation of the house. Rattling the windows and the oddly plastic furnishings.

It was a banging, she soon realized. Different than anything she had heard here before. There was a commanding voice accompanying the bangs, words shouted in sharp staccato, their meaning not taking root. The banging grew in sharp crescendos, threatening the very structure of the house.

She screamed then. The only time her actions had changed as far as her memory stretched backwards. She clawed at her face now, trying to cover her ears from the noise, grabbing harshly at her scalp and dragging her bleeding fingertips over her face and scalp, leaving long, bloody streaks down her face.

Whoever was at the door was going to break it down, and she screamed for them to stop, to leave. The banging only increased at her screams, the voices raising in pitch, repeating a string of syllables that she could not understand. They had to stop. They were about to destroy everything. Her constant stream of "NO!" had risen in volume until it made her own ears ring, or perhaps that was the blood pumping through her, buzzing in her ears, she wasn't sure.

Again the pounding increased. She thought that the walls around her were going to crumble away, exposing her to a new threat. Destroying her only reality. Again she screamed. Begged, yelled hateful thoughts at whoever it was, hoping they would go away, louder and louder until suddenly it stopped.

The door swung open on its hinges, as if being opened by an invisible hand. She covered her eyes against the sudden light, briefly seeing a silhouette surrounded by misting fog, seeping into the house around the tall frame. She paused, as if frozen in time. Too afraid to move, or look away and yet, light recognition tingled in her brain.

The face. The man's face was one she had seen before. A lifetime ago, as well as in her waking dreams, only this time he was frantic and wild eyed, not like the gentle, teasing, inquisitive face she remembered. If remembered was the right word for it.

He was standing still in the doorway. Frozen. All of the strength and fight he used to break down the door seemed to dissolve, hardening him into a statue.

"My God." The new voice whispered. "Abbie."


	2. Chapter 2

"Abbie!" The man repeats, rushing into the room. 

Her room. Her space. 

He rushed towards her at an alarming pace, his lanky frame throwing grotesque shadows on the floor. His arms reaching out, casting a long, clawing shadow that draws closer and closer to her. Invading her. 

She screams again, the sound high and shrill as she scrambles away from the approaching man, dragging her injured hands across the floor and leaving thin trails of fresh blood. 

"NO! GET AWAY!" She yells in an octave so high it causes the man to wince in pain and shock. She pushes herself as far away from him as she can, realizing too late that she has backed herself into a corner. Her wild eyes frantically search the room for something. Anything to stop this man from reaching her, but all she can see are haunting, pseudo-real items made of garish plastic. 

There is nothing. She is trapped. Everything she had ever known was contained in this room and now there was an intruder, threatening her entire existence. She tries to stand, tries to scramble to her feet so she can flee, but she can't seem to find her footing and her knees buckle, sending her sprawling to the ground, more vulnerable than ever. 

 

She realizes that it is over now. Whatever awaits her outside of this room has her in its grasp. She begins to cry, slowly dragging her body back to the place she had been sitting since the beginning of time. She shakes with the effort and trauma, wild cries coming from her throat as she tries to recreate the only safe place she had in this world. She places her bleeding hand against the grooves on the wall and begins to rock and scratch. Faster and more frantic than ever before. She knows that this is the end. This man was here to kill her. He was here to destroy her very soul, tearing it apart into nothingness, until all that she could claim as herself ceased to be. As though she had never existed at all. 

 

She scratches deeply into the wall, trying to reclaim some sense of comfort it may have once offered her. Her head shaking back and forth, tears streaming down her cheeks as she goes back to whispering her mantra of "nononono", softly this time, almost under her breath. She waits for the fatal blow, eyes closed and gasping sobs causing her entire frame to shake. 

She waits. 

It never comes. 

The man has stopped dead in his tracks, somewhere between the door and where she is huddled. He hasn't moved since she has scrambled back into the corner. If she were looking at him, she would have seen the look of horror and fear on his face, causing his blue eyes to well with unshed tears at the sight of what she had become. What This Place had made her. 

"Abbie." The voice says very quietly, not being heard over her keening voice. 

He crouches down, facing her, with one knee on the ground and his other leg curled up towards his chest. His long frame folding into as small an image as he is capable, in an attempt to become the least threatening he can be, his long jacket trailing in the dust surrounding him. 

"Abbie." He repeats, slightly louder, as her sobs begin to subside and the only other sound in the room is the floating music box melody and her whispering voice. She has stopped her frantic movements and has resumed the gentle rocking that felt so natural to her now. 

"Abbie." There was a pause. "Abbie, can you hear me? It is Ichabod Crane. I am only here to help you, Abbie." 

He is staring at her with an intensity that she used to be able to return. Now she is not able to look at him. She has her eyes closed, hoping this apparition will disappear, as other before him had. 

"I'm going to move closer towards you, Abbie. You seem to have hurt yourself and I ne-" 

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" She shrieked again, whirling around just enough to show him the feral look in her eyes, before whipping her head back to rest against the bloody wall. 

"Alright. As you wish. I am not moving, Abbie. I am not going to get any closer. I am only here to help." He repeated. 

His bright, perceptive eyes were sweeping over her broken form, trying to find any and all injuries on her person. He knew that time was limited. The threat of Molock was real and pressing on his conscious thoughts, being rapidly considered in his mind. He needed to reach her, but he had seen that same feral look in the eyes of men who had lost their grip on their minds and knew the seriousness of her mental state. 

"Abbie. You were taken into Purgatory. Do you remember that? It is all over now." He said in a soft, slow, reassuring voice, as if the very agent of death itself wasn't heading towards them at that very moment. 

"I am here to take you home. To Sleepy Hollow. You've done very well and I am so proud of you, Abbie. You have done so well, and you are free now. We are going home, Abbie." 

Her scratching had stopped. It was the only acknowledgement she had made that she had heard or understood anything he had said. 

"I need you to look at me, Abbie. I need to be able to see your face. Could you do that for me, Abbie." He said in his slow, calm voice. "It's alright. This place, this nightmare isn't real. It's all an illusion. You are free and I've come to take you home." 

Slowly, so slowly, her head turns towards him until one of her eyes has him in her sight. 

"Very good. Very good. This place was made to protect you, but you don't need it anymore. This is over and you will never have to return. You can trust me." He smiles slightly, hoping she can see the comfort and trust he is trying to project, instead of acknowledging the bile rising in his throat. 

He had allowed this to happen to her. This was his fault. He knew the necklace didn't have the same level of protection for this place without being wielded by a powerful witch. He did this to her. She couldn't trust him after what he had done. 

Above all, he couldn't allow himself to be dragged down by these thoughts. If he could do anything to amend what he had done, it would be delivering the Lieutenant from this abominable place. He just had to get close enough to touch her. Katrina had told him that the only hope of both of them returning would be if they had made contact. 

"Please." He whispered. "Let me help you." 

She stared at him through one sharp eye and slowly rotated her head so he could see her full face. 

Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Harsh lines of drying blood marred her ashen face. Dark circles were underneath both eyes, which were now firmly focused on him. 

"Who are you?" She finally whispered in a harsh voice. 

"I am Ichabod Crane. Your fellow Witness." 

"No." She said in a slightly louder voice. "Who are you?" 

He faltered. Not sure how to respond. 

"I am Captain Ichabod Crane. I am your fellow witness." He said again, unsure of how to proceed but relieved that she was now acknowledging his presence. 

Slowly, he drew his hand into a fist and moved it infinitesimally closer towards her. 

"Shall we formalize this reunion with a 'fist-bump'?" 

There was a long pause, where neither of them moved. Ichabod did not move his arm any closer to her, and Abbie stared at it with confusion and mistrust. Slowly, her eyes softened and her small, wrecked hand closed into a loose fist and timidly reached out towards his, until the knuckles of her hand ghosted against his. 

Suddenly, she felt a nauseating twist, jerking her head and stomach with swirling, dizzy sensations. She felt as though her entire being was suddenly rent apart and squeezed through a hole the size of an atom, before become whole and stable again. 

She felt her body lurch forward, as she began to dry heave, but ultimately had nothing in her stomach to produce any vomit. She began to slowly realize there were leaves underneath her hands, and dusty ground surrounded her. 

She looked up at her travel companion, who was staring at her intently, not wanting to cause more distress than necessary. 

"Crane?" Abbie whispered, before she looked up and saw the forest surrounding her, the crunch of leaves under her hands and the brisk air running over her bare arms.   
Without warning, Abbie curled into the fetal position on the ground and broke down into wrenching sobs.


End file.
